Saturday afternoons bored George. It was not so much the gap in the day between lunch and an evening of hedonistic pleasure, but the general administration of life – the trip to Sainsbury’s, the trip to the dry cleaner, the trip to the bloody delicatessens in Turnham Green Terrace. George decided to do the Sainsbury’s run himself this afternoon while Caroline took the children for a walk at Chiswick House.

Parking his BMW 4×4 in the Sainsbury’s car park, George walked into the supermarket and headed straight for the cigarette counter.

Assistant: Good afternoon, how are you?

George: As well as can be expected, given that I am having my wooden leg changed later this afternoon, thank you. You OK?

Assistant: I’m fine, thank you.

George: Well, that’s good. Can I have a pack of Marlboro fully leaded please?

George: Sorry about this, but the label on the pack says that these cigarettes will make me impotent. Would you mind changing this pack for some cigarettes that will give me fatal lung cancer instead, please.

Assistant: That’s not very nice.

George: I’m sorry… you’re quite right… it is a joke in excellently bad taste. Read it in The Guardian Weekend section this morning… an amusing article by Julian Barnes.

Assistant: Oh. I don’t read the Guardian. I read The Sun.

George: Excellent… plenty of jokes in that. The Guardian doesn’t usually do jokes, it has to be said… in fact, The Guardian is altogether too serious for any day, let alone a Saturday. .

The assistant looked baffled and an elegant middle aged lady, standing in the adjacent queue, pursed her lips and gave George a disapproving look. George wandered off to collect a trolley and headed down the meats aisle. An elderly couple were moving at a snail’s pace, weaving uncannily into George’s path as he approched them at speed.

George muttered to himself: God in heaven, how do these old people manage to have eyes in the backs of their heads. They have all week to go shopping …. why do they have to do it on a bloody Saturday?

George found a gap and went for it, sailing past the old couple and down the aisle to the roast lamb arrea where he picked up a large leg of lamb. It took George approximately ten minutes to fill the trolley with shopping.

George saw a check-out with only one customer. He also saw the same old couple he had barged past heading for the same counter. The race was on. George broke into a trot and just reached the check out before the old couple.George smiled at the elderly man and woman.

George: Sorry about that, but have to rush, getting my wooden leg changed today and have to leg it, pronto.

Elderly woman: You have a wooden leg?

George: The foot fell off the other day when I playing golf. Most unfortunate, I was playing a difficult seven iron to the green and ended up slicing the ball into someone’s garden.

Elderly woman: Well I hope your new leg won’t cause you any problems.

George: Yes… no absolutely… can’t wander about worrying if my foot is going to fall off.

At that moment, George heard a familiar voice, the soft lilt of a very clever woman, a barrister by training.

Bronwyn: George… behave yourself… You don’t have a wooden leg… that was a disgraceul performance, running with your trolley to queue jump these lovely people. I insist that you let them go first.

I’m sure that you discovered during your Google search that ‘Hiraeth’ ( to give it its proper spelling – i CURSE my false nails!!!) has no direct English Translation, but my be equated with the most APPALLING Homesickness, a dreadful deep-seated longing thats almost painful. Its a singularly Welsh condition thats hard to explain, but when it hits , it is pretty full on Chubby!! i.e INTENSE!!!!! 🙂

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